Ripped Veil

Chapter 2 Episode 2

I killed him.

I killed him.

The candles flicker brighter, as if they know what’s going on inside my mind. I rip the veil off my head and hurl it at a cluster of candles in the corner. It catches fire immediately and starts to crackle.

The shivering comes back. As do the memories—some of them, at least.

Tonight was supposed to be my wedding night. We’d spent weeks in preparation. The event of the decade: Father Josiah had finally decided to take a wife. And he had blessed my family with the highest of honors.

He had chosen me.

But even though the past few weeks start coming back to me, the last twenty-four hours are a complete blur. A black hole that hides the secret to what happened in this bedroom.

I shake my head, unable to look at Father Josiah’s body. I’d agreed to marry him. Of course I had. He was the leader of our commune, the Sanctuary. He was strong and brave and kind and honest. He was the savior of so many families, including my own.

I’d been chosen.

And then I’d… killed him?

I look down at the paperweight where I dropped it, waiting for the last piece of the puzzle. But nothing comes. All I have are black shapes, wavy images, and fleeting emotions that I don’t recognize.

But the facts are the facts. I killed Father Josiah. I killed my husband.

I don’t quite understand what comes over me in the moment that follows. All I know is that my eyes drift to the burning wedding veil in the corner. I stand and rush over to it, though it feels like I’m not even in control of my actions. An out-of-body experience, I think they call it.

I snatch up the biggest candle. Hot, molten wax sears my skin, but I barely feel it.

It’s not a conscious decision. But I am distantly aware of the hysteria twisting into something else. Something that feels like… survival.

I push the open flame against the filmy material of the curtain tied up on to side of the window. It catches fire immediately and the roar grows quickly. The fire spreads fast.

Then I throw the candle at the bed. I don’t look to see where it lands. I just turn and run.

Down the stairs.

Out the door.

My high heels sink into sand as I cross from the patchy yards of the commune out into the wild desert. Gasping, I kick them off and keep running.

I don’t look back. My eyes are on the glow of lights in the far distance. I know those lights. I’ve watched them my whole life.

Las Vegas.

I’ve never been myself, despite it being right at our doorstep. The Sanctuary is all I’ve ever known. To want more was to accept sin into your life. To venture beyond was to turn your back on the commune.

But I’ve murdered the heart of our community. The shepherd to our flock. I’ve handed my soul over to the devil. There’s nowhere else for me to go now.

So I go toward the lights.

I keep running, even when the heels of my feet start tearing and bleeding. I pant through the pain in my side and the pain in my heart. My eyes never leave the lights ahead.

And little by little, they get brighter. More blinding. The Sanctuary disappears into the vast blackness behind me.

But it doesn’t seem to matter how much distance I put between myself and my family, myself and my community, myself and the only home I’ve ever known.

No matter how far or how fast I run…

I can still smell the lingering hints of patchouli following me through the shadowy desert.

Chapter 2: Phoenix

Chapter 2: Phoenix

Wild Night Blossom. A haven for the depraved. A hellhole of debauchery.

On the surface, it’s all class. But that’s a cold-blooded lie.

I know better.

So does the man I’ve come here to meet.

It’s a meeting that’s been three years in the making. My making. And tonight, all this s**t finally comes to an end.

I circle the room I’ve just been shown into. The walls are black, but you can barely tell, thanks to the dozens of framed, mismatched mirrors hung at every height. Some are small and square with thin iron frames. Others are massive splays of rectangular glass with thick, gilded edges.

Five uniform chandeliers hang from the high ceiling. Made of crystal and flickering with candlelight, they’re barely bright enough to beat back the shadows crowding in every corner.

There are no windows, of course. Not one. Privacy is of utmost importance to a man like Viktor Ozol.

The master of this whole circus of sin. The motherfucker who has plagued my peace of mind for three years.

Ever since Aurora…

Ever since Yuri…

I’m pacing hard, but the sounds of my footsteps are swallowed whole by the burgundy carpet. The music pulsing beyond these walls is felt more than it’s heard. The whole point of this room is to shut out the unsavory nature of what this club was built for: s*x in all its forms.

I’d come to the club alone, as per the agreement between Ozol and myself. And as expected, it was a f*****g orgy of flesh from the second I stepped foot in the door. In every booth, beneath every table, on every possible surface, there were people f*****g. Groans and moans filled the air.

They say the s*x is an expression of freedom. Strip yourself of inhibition, reads the ornate sign over the door. They think it’s a cute little double entendre.

Sex is power. s*x is confidence.

What a f*****g farce.

I’d surveyed the faces of the men and women in each booth I’d passed. Some hid their pain behind robotic moans. Others made a show of enjoyment, despite their vacant expressions.

They were all young.

They were all beautiful.

They were all breathing f*****g corpses.

My hand twitches automatically towards the waistband of my pants, but I remember I don’t have my gun anymore. My weapons were confiscated at the door.

I made a lot of concessions to gain this meeting. I’m still convinced it’s worth it.

Or rather it will be… once I have the fucker within my grasp.

Ozol agreed to meet me in this room at precisely ten-thirty. The silver clock on the wall tells me that it’s ten forty-three now. The bastard is late.

I doubt it’s an accident. Nothing Viktor Ozol does is ever an accident. I’m sure he thinks this deliberate power move will assert his dominance over me.

He’s wrong if he believes I’ll be intimidated. He’s wrong if he thinks I earned all the things I have—the money, the power—from sheer f*****g nepotism.

The blood that runs in my veins is pure mob royalty. I am Phoenix Kovalyov, son of Artem and Esme Kovalyov, the reigning king and queen of the Los Angeles-based Kovalyov Bratva. Nephew to Cillian and Kian O’Sullivan, dons of Ireland’s O’Sullivan mafia clan.

But the blood I’ve spilled to earn my place at the table was done with my own two hands. I carved this empire in Las Vegas myself. Made my own way. Built my own legacy. And I made sure that my reputation would stand on its own two feet, far removed from the dynasties that my mentors built.

Ten years ago, I left my Uncle Kian’s tutelage in New York City and came here to erect something from scratch. I did exactly that. I am a don in my own right. Nothing can touch me. No man can hurt me.

Or at least, that’s what I used to believe.

Until three years ago.

When I was foolish enough to let an enemy take advantage of the one vulnerability that I’d allowed myself in the last decade.

I glance at the time. Ten forty-nine. This asshole is really f*****g with the wrong man. But I force myself to be patient. I’ve waited three years for this meeting. I can stand to wait a few more minutes.

My muscles ping with adrenaline, preparing for a fight that I’ve imagined in my head a thousand times over.

Uncle Cillian always says that revenge is the wrong reason to fight. But I disagree. It’s the strongest motivator I have left. It’s the reason I’ve made it my life’s mission to expose and destroy Astra Tyrannis, the organization that Viktor runs.

Three f*****g years… and I can finally feel the end coming.

For one of us.

I hear a sound from just outside the door. I wait, ears piqued, but the door remains closed.

Frustrated and growing increasingly impatient, I stalk over to the gigantic bar that covers the entire end wall of the room. The shelves are set against polished glass, weighed down with endless bottles of liquor.

All rare. All expensive. All bought with blood money.

I don’t kid myself that I’m some kind of crusader. I’m no saint. And I’m definitely no hero.

I’ve killed without reason. I’ve stolen without compulsion. I’ve lied without guilt. But even among thieves and murderers, there’s a f*****g code.

You don’t f**k with women or children. And Viktor Ozol has done both.

There’s no evidence to pin to him. No proof to nail him with. Just a f**k ton of rumors and the stink of corruption that pervades through every single establishment he owns, through every nasty place his fingers have ever soiled.